inks the sun, love,
Crimson the sky,
See the pale moon, love,
Rises on high.

Now through the sky, love,
Stars of the night,
O'er thy fair head, love,
Smiling shine bright.
But they are dim, love,
By the true light,
Which in thine eyes, love,
Burns day and night.

Deep in the wood, love,
Curtained with shade,
Birds to the sun, love,
Sing serenade.
Faint is their song, love,
Nought to mine ear,
When from thy lips, love,
Sweet words I hear.

Gaze on the tide, love,
Sleeping at rest,
Mirrored thy face, love,
See on its breast.
So in my heart, love,
Carved is thy mien,
Where thou shalt reign, love,
Throned as my queen.

At the foot of the Stairs.

Maidenlike, love's question waiving,
Nought she said,
While I stood my answer craving,
Half afraid.
Coldly she with hand extended,
Said, "Good night,"
And ere well the words were ended,
Took to flight
Past me, deep obeisance making.
Well she knew
She with her my heart was taking
Torn in two.

At the stairway's foot half dreaming
Still I stayed;
From my heart my love poured streaming
Towards the maid.
For one blissful moment standing
Paused she there;
Fell the lamplight from the landing
On her hair,
And her eyes, like starlight sparkling,
Clear were seen,
But, alas! the staircase darkling
Lay between.

Down the staircase through the gloaming,
Smiled she then,
As though heaven itself were coming
Down to men!
Raised her hand and from her tresses
Plucked a rose
Which amid her locks' caresses,
Found repose,
Breathed upon it love's own dower,
Kisses sweet,
And for answer dropped the flower
At my feet.

OSSIAN GWENT.

John Davies was born at Cardigan in 1834, and died April 24, 1892. He
was, I believe, a carpenter by trade. He published one little volume,
"Caniadau Ossian Gwent" (Hughes & Son, Wrexham), but he left a large mass
of unpublished matter. No one of our poets is simpler or purer, or
writes so lovingly of birds and flowers.

The Lark.

Oh hark!
With fluttering wing and dewy breast,
Soars upward like a spirit strong,
From reedy nest,
The gentle lark,
To tune on high his matin song.

Alway
A nameless charm flows from thy lay,
Melodious bird!
Whose music heard
Drives care and sorrow far away.

Beneath,
The sleeping world lies still as death;
Above, we hear the